


games you don't want to play

by lestered (lgbtrobed)



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Closeted Character, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Growing Up, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-18
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:54:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23205802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lgbtrobed/pseuds/lestered
Summary: You try not to pay attention to some of the couples starting to cosy up with each other. You want someone to lay with you in your sleeping bag and look at the stars.You don’t get that. You don’t get to be normal. You’ve never felt the giddiness of young love, or even of a really intense crush. Those things aren’t for you.You want something you can’t have. You want a boyfriend.
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 20
Kudos: 79
Collections: phandomficfests: escape from reality





	games you don't want to play

**Author's Note:**

> hey everyone! i usually don't put these disclaimers on my fics but since this one draws on a lot of true stories, i just want to say that this is still fiction and none of it is intended to be an accurate portrayal of, or any sort of commentary on, phil's real life.

You’re nine years old when your brother calls you a mummy’s boy for the first time. 

You want to stay inside and help her frost sugar cookies instead of going outside with him for a snowball fight. You stick your tongue out and tell him he’s just jealous that you’re the favourite. He rolls his eyes and says you’re not the favourite, you’re just the _baby,_ and your mum tuts at both of you. Your dad bonks you lightly on the head with his rolled up newspaper and says it’s not every year we get a good blizzard so close to Christmas, and why don’t you go out while the snow’s still fresh, so you sigh and slide out of the kitchen chair. 

Martyn bounces impatiently while you put on your jacket and your snow pants, boots and hat and gloves and tackles you into a snowbank as soon as you’re out the door. You laugh because the snow is so deep that it doesn’t even hurt; it’s fun. You split up and build separate forts until he calls time and hits you square in the chest with a snowball. You gasp, dive behind your wall of snow and start firing back at him. You hit him more than he hits you; you’re smaller and you have faster hands and you’re definitely winning until he goes fully on the offensive, charging toward you and barreling straight through your defensive wall. You fall back into the snow as your fort crumbles around you and you complain; that’s not _fair._

_It’s called strategy, Dibs,_ he says as he pulls you up and brushes the snow off of your shoulders. You appreciate it, even though it ends up blowing right back in your face. _Sometimes survival means breaking the rules._

*

You’re not sure if your first date actually counts. Is it really a date if it’s school-sanctioned and you don’t even want to be there at all? That doesn’t seem right.

Your friends sit at the table behind you and throw tiny, crumpled up pieces of napkin at your back, trying to get your attention. You don’t turn around. You stare at the girl in front of you and try speaking to her but you’ve got nothing in common, nothing at all. You try to feel cool. None of your friends have ever had a date before and not only that, _she_ asked _you._ So what if she’s not the prettiest or doesn’t know who Crash Bandicoot is? That’s not _that_ important.

Besides, you could always invite her over for Playstation. Maybe she’d learn to like it.

It’s not just that. You just don’t fancy her. You don’t fancy anyone, and isn’t that a bit weird by now? You’re ten years old and your friends are tired of pretending girls have cooties but you’re not. It’s easier to pretend they do.

She tries playing footsie with you under the table; you kick her by accident when her foot brushes against your ankle where you’re ticklish. You leave her with a bruised shin and Mountain Dew spilled down the front of her shirt and she doesn’t seem interested in your frantic apologies. 

At least your friends don’t give you any crap about it.

You decide that no, it doesn’t actually count.

*

Martyn tells you secondary school is gonna be fine and the reassuring feeling lasts about two minutes, until you get on the bus and he ditches you for his friends in the back. You don’t blame him; he has better things to do than coddle his dorky baby brother. You take the first empty seat you see, up near the front, look out the window and tell yourself it’ll be alright.

For the most part, it is. It’s just that it’d sure be nice if literally any of your friends were going to this school, too. You focus on not getting lost and try not to think about the future of group projects and gym lessons. 

You avoid eye contact with the older kids, especially the guys with literal stubble starting to come in. You don’t think that stubble’s kinda hot, definitely haven’t been thinking that all summer ever since that hunky surfer guy on the beach. You try not to think about the fact that you categorize some guys as _hunky_ now while you still haven’t felt even a twinge of attraction to even the most objectively pretty of girls. Does it even matter anyway? Gay or straight, you’re not exactly a babe magnet.

Martyn sits with you on the bus ride home. _Wasn’t so bad, right?_ he asks. You nod and shrug. He bumps your shoulder a little. _It gets easier, really._

*

You make friends. They’re really nice. You guys play video games and have sleepovers. They star in your movies and actually want to watch them back with you when you’re done editing. They even make friends with your neighbourhood friends. 

You have parties and play spin the bottle. You kiss your girl friends and your guy friends and it’s just a game; it’s not a big deal. That’s what the guys say every time they have to kiss another guy - it’s not gay, it’s just a game. So you play. 

You finally get a girlfriend and your first proper kiss. You bang your teeth against hers and it kind of sucks. She giggles and assures you it’s okay but you’re not sure if it is, really. You get a little better after a few more tries, but it’s still not great. You don’t know _exactly_ what kissing is supposed to feel like, but you’re sure everyone wouldn’t be so excitable if it just felt like nothing at all. 

_Her lips taste fine_. That’s your only thought, and it’s a weird one.

You’re not that surprised when she cheats on you. Is it even cheating if it was barely a relationship to begin with? She doesn’t seem to really think so. You’re not heartbroken over losing her, but it was nice to feel normal. Even if you didn’t like kissing her that much, even if you felt guilty deep down for leading her on.

When she cheats on her new guy, too, you feel a little better. Then you feel bad about feeling better. Still, you can’t help but think that maybe this means it wasn’t you. Maybe she wasn’t that keenly aware of how uninterested you were. Maybe she just gets bored really quickly. You guess it doesn't matter that much, you still get a new best mate out of it. 

That’s a lot more fun than a girlfriend, anyway.

*

You’re fourteen years old the first time you see two girls kiss. No wonder _Buffy_ ’s the best show of all time. Truly, it never lets you down.

Your best mate is sprawled out, opposite you on the other end of the sofa. He sits up just a little when Tara and Willow kiss, eyebrows raised and lips parted slightly. 

_Whoa,_ he breathes out a laugh, _awesome._

You wonder, what if it was two boys instead? Would it be just as awesome then?

You buy a cutout of Sarah Michelle Gellar the next time you go into town. Look how blonde and hot she is. Your friends and your brother and dad tease you, all in good fun. _Got a bit of a crush there, eh Philly?_

No, you don’t. You just fucking love Buffy. But if people assume you like it for more than just the plot, well, you’re not gonna correct them. 

*

Dyeing your hair was a stupid fucking idea. In what world Honey-Auburn translates into Literal Highlighter Orange, you’ve no clue. It was probably your fault. You should’ve let your mum help you, but when she offered you could’ve sworn her expression was a little wary. 

(She bought the dye for you. You know that. You must have been looking for something that wasn’t even there.)

Besides, you’re not a mummy’s boy anymore. You know what they say about boys who get too attached to their mothers.

Fuck, you don’t want it to actually be like that. Life was so much easier when you could sit with her and frost cookies and you weren’t hiding anything from her, or anyone, because you didn’t know enough about yourself yet. 

Anyway, she kisses you on the forehead and tells you it’s just hair, it’ll grow out. You laugh and shrug it off when your granddad comes over for dinner and jokingly tells you, _That’s why we leave hair-dyeing for the girls, lad._ Martyn gives you a good ribbing about it because that’s what older brothers do, but the next night there’s a box of black semi-permanent dye sitting on your pillow. 

_It's safer to go darker than lighter if you’re trying out a new look,_ is scrawled in Sharpie on the front. _Better luck next time, little bro._

You don’t know why that makes you grin so hard. You’ve already sworn off hair dye for the foreseeable future but you stash it under your bed, just in case you ever feel brave again.

*

You get another girlfriend. You don’t know what she looks like, but that’s fine. She says her webcam is broken. You don’t really care what she looks like, you just care that she thinks you’re a hot blonde snowboarder, and that she believes you when you say that your webcam’s broken, too. _What’s the point, you can’t even kiss,_ your friends say. You don’t tell them that that’s the whole point.

You don't love her, but it still sucks when she dumps you. You just thought you had a good thing going, that's all.

*

You go to prom with your friends. Some of you have dates and some of you don’t. 

You don’t. Surprise. 

It’s fun anyway. You ride in a limo and dance with your single friends and afterwards, you all camp out in someone’s backyard. You have a bonfire and drink straight, warm Smirnoff out of plastic cups and it tastes gross but it makes you feel warm and happy. 

You try not to pay attention to some of the couples starting to cosy up with each other. You want someone to lay with you in your sleeping bag and look at the stars. 

You don’t get that. You don’t get to be normal. You’ve never felt the giddiness of young love, or even of a really intense crush. Those things aren’t for you.

You want something you can’t have. You want a boyfriend.

*

You love university. You love your housemates. You love getting really, properly drunk for the first time and saying it out loud. _I’m gay._ You love the hugs of support and claps on the shoulder when you pour your heart out and finally, effectively stop pretending to be someone you’re not.

You love feeling safe.

You don’t feel like you can be loud about it yet. You know there are other people like you, but you’re still too scared to go out and find them. 

But at least you’re on the way to finding yourself.

*

The internet is wonderful. Always has been. It’s just that nowadays in particular, there’s people all over the place just as weird and just as gay as you are. People like the strange little horror movies you post on youtube. You get a haircut and finally, finally take Martyn’s advice on the black hair dye. 

Girls and guys alike think it’s hot.

Dating websites let you set your preferences. Men, women, men and women. The computer doesn’t sneer at you when you click _men only._

You get a date. You’re excited. Finally, a date that really counts. A date that finally has you feeling butterflies in your stomach while you button your shirt in the mirror and think, _something might actually go somewhere._ You’ve never felt so high.

*

You learn that dates are often quick and casual and end up in bed. The guys aren’t rude or callous. In fact, a lot of them are quite nice. But they’re really only interested in one thing. 

_You’re a really good guy, mate,_ one of them tells you as he’s buckling his belt at the end of your bed. You watch him get dressed, silently wishing the post-orgasm buzz to stay a little longer so you can fall asleep before everything turns hollow again. _Some bloke’s gonna be lucky to have you someday. Just not looking to be tied down right now. Bit young for that._

His words stick with you more than some of the flimsier excuses you’ve encountered thus far. Maybe because he seems pretty genuine.

Maybe, you think, he’s got kind of a point.

After that, it feels a lot more fun. You go on more dates and find guys at parties. You hook up a lot because you like it. You like toned, flat chests and stubble scratching lightly against your thighs. You like watching their Adam’s apple bob when they swallow you down. You _really_ like the deep, raspy moans that harmonize with the creaking of the bedsprings, with headboards hitting the wall. You like how it’s all just pure _man._

You don’t worry about finding love. You just have fun.

You just have fun until the other shoe drops. Until one screenshot and mass text bursts your perfect little university bubble. You’re angry and you’re hurt and you’re scared.

You feel betrayed. You wonder if they even thought about what this would do to you.

You don’t cry. You confront it like the grown-up you are. You take back what little power you have left and tell it to them straight.

...Ironically.

You’re gay. 

Your friends take it well. Almost too well. They don’t seem hurt by your years of lying by omission. Is that a problem with them, or with you? All that time spent hiding your dirty little secret that you always knew, deep down, wasn’t dirty at all, but might as well have been for how desperately you needed to keep it in.

Don’t they get it?

You force the confusion to the back of your mind and your relief to the forefront. You grin at your computer screen. Then you frown at what you type next.

_Just please don’t say anything to my parents._

Your mum and dad raised you to tell the truth. They said you could tell them anything. Honesty is the best policy, that was the rule.

You think back to a dark winter’s night and a face full of snow. _Sometimes survival means breaking the rules._

You say goodnight, shut your laptop and go to the bathroom. You splash your face with cold water and blow out a deep breath, staring at yourself in the mirror.

_It’s called strategy, Dibs._

*

You get your bachelor’s and your master’s and you move back home. Your parents are proud of you. Your dad buys you a cordless hammer drill because every man needs a proper set of tools. You wonder if he expects you to actually use it, or if it’s a standard welcome-to-adulthood gift. You ask Martyn if dad bought him any tools when he graduated from uni. He laughs and says no, he already had his own set. He was always having to fix things in his student accommodation.

You never fixed anything. You feel like a little kid. 

You throw yourself into Youtube again. People really like the stuff you make. You make friends with other video makers. You have a lot of followers on Twitter and MySpace and Dailybooth. You get a P.O. box and it fills up quick with letters and gifts.

It’s weird. You literally have adoring fans.

...One adoring fan in particular, you’ve been noticing a lot.

You meet up with your internet friends in person sometimes. Some of them are gay, too. You love your little online world. You want to crawl inside your computer and live there instead of here.

Your parents ask you if you’ve had any luck looking for jobs. 

No, you haven’t.

*

You get mixed messages from your parents. They act patient, but they don’t let you forget that the gap on your resume is growing wider by the day. You’re twenty two years old and your mum still calls you _child._ You secretly don’t actually mind it, even though you know you probably should. Ugh. Martyn was right. You really are a mummy’s boy.

They encourage your creative hobbies, of course they do. But that's what they are, key word: hobbies. You feel like you’re eight years old, being sat down to do your spelling homework before you can go play with the video camera. You fill out applications. You still have no idea what the hell constitutes a good cover letter. And staying off the internet is hard.

Especially when Dan’s online.

*

Things are almost always better on the internet than they are in person.

Dan is a very loud, very clear exception to that rule. 

You’re not the schoolboy-crush type. You haven’t been for years. You tell yourself that of course you'll keep your cool, but it’s over for you the second you see him on that train platform. He’s real. He’s really, really _real._

You tell yourself that the only way anything happens is if he kisses you first, because there’s an uncertain haze about him and you can’t see all the way through to how he really feels about you, when all of the innocent flirtation and jokey banter is stripped away. You care about him in more ways than one and you’ll never, ever push him to do something he doesn’t want.

But he does kiss you. After that, you don’t waste any more time.

*

He’s not ready to come out. You tell him it’s okay. You wish you could’ve waited until you were ready. Your family still doesn’t even know. October, November, he lays his head on your bare chest and whispers with tears in his eyes how unfair all of it is. He apologizes. You tell him it’s not his fault. You promise. You swallow down lump after lump in your throat at the stories he tells. You actually shake sometimes, you’re so angry for him. He cries in front of you.

You cry in front of him, too. You can’t remember the last time you cried in front of someone.

But Dan isn’t just someone.

You don't know what to do besides kiss him to shut him up every time he tries to give you an out. He tells you he’s broken and that you’re too good for him. He tells you he understands if you don’t want to waste your time. You can’t stand hearing him talk about himself that way and he just doesn't understand how wrong he is about all of it.

_Look how many people watch your videos already. Look at all your followers. Look how much they love you._ It does make him happy sometimes, but it never seems like it’s there to stay. You understand. Likes and views don't buy happiness.

He says you make him the happiest he’s ever been. You don’t feel like you deserve credit for that, you haven’t really _done_ anything.

You feel all sorts of feelings around him and not all of them are good. You worry for him and you’re scared for him and you hurt for him. Sometimes he’s a smartass in a bad way. Sometimes he snaps at you and then won’t even tell you what you did wrong. Sometimes he shuts down and he doesn’t let you in no matter what you try.

But he’s so, so good. He's your favourite person. He’s beautiful and warm and the funniest person you know. He’s creative and passionate and protective. He drives you crazy with lust. He’s greedy, all grabby hands and possessive bites when you make love, his quiet moans and whispered pleas for more are music to your ears. When you lie together, sweaty and spent and glowing, you can almost feel your heartbeat trying to sync up to his.

He plays Sonic with you, watches movies with you, listens to Muse with you, makes videos with you. He looks at you like you hung the moon and all the stars in the sky and you love him. God, you love him. You whisper it to him in the dark and for five excruciating seconds you’re just on the verge of falling apart, until he kisses you and you feel him smile and he says it back. 

He makes you so weak, but you know that’s okay. You make him weak, too.

*

Your parents are fond of Dan. They think he’s a nice young man. He shoots you a cheeky smirk as they commend him for helping with the washing up after dinner. Martyn praises him for having way cooler taste in music than you. 

They all also make sure you have plenty of alone time. You wonder if they know. For the first time in your life, you kind of want them to. 

You buy him a stuffed Tonberry and give it to him on Christmas Eve-Eve. He smothers you in kisses but that’s as far as it goes since you don’t have the luxury of an empty house at the moment. 

_You want to come out to them,_ he whispers in bed that night.

You don’t know what to say. _Maybe a bit,_ you think of saying, _but it doesn’t matter, you’re not ready, I’ll wait as long as you—_

_I think you should,_ he finishes, before you can totally formulate your reply.

You turn your head. You can’t see him that well in the dark but you can feel him, so warm and so close. He kisses you. You talk into the early hours of the morning about it. He says he trusts your parents. They ought to be top-tier people if they raised you.

When it’s time to head to the train station, you have your goodbye kisses in the bedroom, behind closed doors. You ask him a hundred times if he’s sure. He answers a hundred times: _Yes. Yes. Yes._

Your legs bounce anxiously on the bus back from Manchester. Dan texts you from the train. He believes in you. 

Dinner passes by in a blur. You watch the snow fall outside the window and listen through muted ears while Martyn regales your parents with some exciting story about his latest nightclub gig. You help with the washing up. You think your hands might be visibly trembling, but you manage not to break anything, which is all that really counts. 

_Now you don’t all get to scurry off without helping with the desserts for tomorrow,_ your Mum says, and plops a bowl of frosting and a tray of sugar cookies down on the kitchen table. Something clicks when you take your seat next to her.

_Before we do anything, actually,_ you blurt before you can think twice, _there’s something I need to tell you guys._

They turn their gazes on you and your heart starts hammering in your chest. 

_Yes, love,_ your mum reaches across the table and takes your hand. That’s when you look them all in the eyes and you know they know. Martyn nudges your foot under the table, your mum gives your hand a squeeze and your dad nods as if to say, _go on then._

It’s a dark, snowy night and honesty is still the best policy. The house rules have been the same since you were nine and sometimes survival means breaking the rules, but then sometimes you grow up and realize that sometimes survival means following the rules, too.

You take a deep breath. Your phone buzzes once next to you on the table, Dan’s name lights up the screen with a heart emoticon next to it. You wait until it goes dark again, nod to yourself, and you say it. You say it and you can't take it back. 

As your family embraces you, you can’t help but wish that you’d known it would be this way all along. You decide to file that knowledge away for the future, instead.

It’s all gonna be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! hmu on tumblr @lestered
> 
> reblogs are appreciated, you can do that [here](https://lestered.tumblr.com/post/612969458464686080/games-you-dont-want-to-play-m-4k-you-try-not-to) <3


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